


A Hawkeish Debutancy

by LadyLuthien



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Awkward Flirting, Courtship, F/M, Fluff, Gen, Light Angst, Platonic Romance, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-04
Updated: 2017-02-14
Packaged: 2018-09-14 15:49:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,390
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9190328
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyLuthien/pseuds/LadyLuthien
Summary: The Amell family has been restored to their rightful home in Hightown, and Leandra can think of no better way to celebrate than by inducting her daughter into high society as a proper young lady. Hawke is no lady and hardly proper, so she clandestinely invites a certain elven ex-slave to join her as her maybe-date. Her almost-date. Her not-quite.Rated T because my Hawke swears like the mercenary she entered the city as. Completed, I'll do my best to post a chapter a day or thereabouts.





	1. Chapter 1

The time after they returned from the Deep Roads was busy for Hawke, so busy that she lost track of her friends sometimes for whole weeks at a time. So it was a welcome surprise when Fenris appeared in her living room one morning.

“Hello, Fenris!” She called from the balcony, and Fenris started at her voice. After nearly a year in her company, he was calmer, even she could tell that, but his nerves still ran as close to the skin as his lyrium tattoos. “Whoops, sorry. Didn’t mean to startle you.”

“It is no trouble,” he said courteously. “I wanted to see how you were doing.”

“Ugh, busy,” Hawke grumbled, trotting down the stairs to him. His voice still made her stomach do little fluttery things, but he was a good enough friend that she could almost ignore them. Almost.

“Mother is going bananas trying to plan my coming out party. As if I need to be introduced to Kirkwall high society, at this point I think I’ve saved half their reputations, or alternatively dragged them through the mud. But then she starts getting sad about how she’ll never plan one for Bethany, and all of a sudden I feel like a complete monster for complaining.” She hopped on the banister to slide the rest of the way, tumbling off at the end to stand at Fenris’ feet. “How are you?”

“I am well,” he said, smiling slightly at her unusual arrival. “I wanted you to know. You told me a long time ago I should pick a nameday. I think I shall pick the anniversary of my escape from Danarius.”

“A good choice,” Hawke told him, her heart warming slightly at the realization that he had taken her suggestion so seriously. “And when is that?”

“The third of Kingsway, I believe. I did not mark the date until several days later.”

“But that’s soon!” Hawke exclaimed, her mind already racing with ideas. 

“It is.” Fenris looked down, seemingly embarrassed. One gauntleted hand scratched absently at the back of his head. “Since you were so insistent that I pick, I thought I should let you know before the date elapsed.”

“No, I’m glad you did. What would you like to do to celebrate?” Hawke could barely contain her excitement. It was not often that she got to plan someone’s first nameday party.

“I am not sure.” Fenris sighed, turning to gaze into the hearth fire. “I have had many new experiences since my escape, but few have been of the celebratory kind.” He looked back at her. “I would prefer... little fanfare, if that is acceptable.”

“Right. Of course.” Hawke had expected that - the idea of Fenris at the center of a crowd, even a happy one, seemed like a recipe for instant disaster. “Well, the third is, what, six days away - oh,  _ hellfire. _ ”

“What is it?” Fenris looked concerned.

“That would be when my darling mother has scheduled my coming out party.” Hawke made a face. The idea of simultaneously charming young noblemen while dodging their mothers was unappealing even if there was nothing else she should be doing, but this was so much worse.

“I see.” If anything, Fenris looked relieved. “I will not impose, then.”

“No -” Hawke reached out a hand as he turned to go. “No, please impose. It’ll be dreadfully boring, I’d much rather be celebrating with you.”

He stopped and turned back to her, his hair falling into his eyes. She wondered absently if he cut it himself. “But your mother will not agree to let you spend the evening with me.”

Hawke sighed. “No, you’re right, she won’t. But -” she paused, breathless, as a bold idea presented itself to her. “You could accompany me. Try out festivities without being the center of attention for it.”

“As a...suitor?” He sounded alarmed, but there was something else in his voice, too, that made her insides turn warm and soft and strangely uncomfortable.

“No! I mean - well, if you wanted -” Hawke pressed a hand to her flaming cheeks. “ _ Maker _ , Fenris, I’m not going to assume -”

He chuckled at that, finally lifting his head to meet her eyes. “But that is the purpose of a coming out party, is it not?”

Oh, he was not going to let her off the hook on this one. Hawke stared back at him, an unexpected courage filling her. “Typically, at a coming out party, the suitor is the one who requests the attentions of the lady, not the other way around.” She grinned cheekily at him, trying to ignore how hot her face still was.

He gave the small, awkward laugh she was so fond of and looked away. Then his face grew more serious. “I have no clothes that would be appropriate for such an event.”

“Perfect,” Hawke said, trying to keep her face calm despite the feeling of victory threatening to overwhelm her. “That can be my nameday present to you. Ever had lemon cakes?”

Fenris shook his head, and she grinned. “Excellent. I dare say this will be fun.” 

 

Fenris was not prepared for going shopping with Hawke. True, she was not extravagant - nothing in her wardrobe was flamboyant or impractical. Nonetheless, she was a stickler for quality. They went to the same tailor that was making her gown, so that she could be fitted at the same visit. Unfortunately, the events did not occur simultaneously. 

“I like this one,” Fenris said hesitantly, running his fingers across a simple black wool. Hawke simply chuckled.

“Of course you do, it’s black and boring. What are the odds I could get you to try an actual color?”

“Very low,” Fenris said dryly, and Hawke laughed heartily.

“Dark green? It’d match your eyes.”

“I -” Hawke knew his eye color. Why did Hawke know his eye color.  “What if it is black and green?”

“Not without a white or something in there. It’ll be overwhelmingly dark.” Hawke ran her fingers over the bolts of cloth, the small shopkeeper bobbing behind her almost pleadingly, attempting to get a word in. “What about this?”

Fenris inspected the bolt she had her hand on, a dark green brocade laced with silver threads. It was far finer than anything he had ever worn. “I would prefer something... simpler.”

“Of course you would,” Hawke said good-naturedly, but she moved on from the bolt. “What about this?”

The green wool was still finer cloth than he would prefer, but at least it was unpatterned, and a not-unpleasing color. “This will do.”

“Excellent, we can make you trousers out of this, and if you wear it with a white linen shirt, then...” her fingers moved easily along the bolts. “How about this for a doublet? Especially if we line it with the wool?”

The black silk moved supply through her fingers, revealing a geometric pattern woven into the fabric. Fenris tried to imagine wearing it and failed. “Alright,” he said weakly.

“Excellent.” Hawke turned to the shopkeeper, who wore an expression of almost pathetic relief. “May we see a book of styles?”

Fenris almost groaned. He was not sure he could take more decisions, especially for a garment he doubted he would wear often. And yet... something in him delighted at the idea of dressing in finery, greeting nobles as equals instead of waiting on them. It seemed like a fitting revenge for an ex-slave.

Thankfully, the styles went quickly - here, at least, he knew what he wanted. He chose a slender fit, to minimize impediments, and no decorations - although after some prodding from Hawke, he chose a high collar instead of the simple round neck he would have otherwise chosen, and silver detailing on the doublet instead of black. Then Hawke went behind a curtain to be prodded, and Fenris was measured brusquely by an attendant. He clenched his teeth as the elven woman slipped a tape around every conceivable part of his body, hating the feeling of someone else so near to him. Even an unexpected brush of the tape measure made his lyrium feel like it had ants crawling through it.

When Hawke finally emerged, he was in high dudgeon. “Are we done?” He asked her roughly, in an undertone so that the shopkeeper would not hear.

“Here, yes. Unless you have shoes you’re not telling me about.” She grinned cheekily at him.

Shoes. The only thing he could hate more. His ears flattened unconsciously against his head, and she laughed and made as if to touch him on the arm before withdrawing her hand again. 

“You should try going shopping with my mother. We were here for six hours just selecting fabrics.”

He shuddered. “Must I wear shoes?”

“Well, you can’t go barefoot,” Hawke said as she waved goodbye to the shopkeeper and stepped out into the sunlit street. 

“I do not like shoes,” Fenris grumbled, following.

“Would you prefer slippers? We can find something soft.”

Fenris sighed, knowing he would not win this battle. “Slippers are acceptable.”


	2. II.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dressing for the ball - Hawke with the help of her mother, Fenris with the rather more dubious help of his memories.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW for implied abuse and all the mess that is recovering from trauma

The day of her party, Hawke was uncharacteristically nervous. Her mother had insisted on loaning her a stick of kohl and some red for her lips, but she had no idea how to apply either. Behind a screen in her room, her gown awaited her, uncomfortably bereft of wards. She knew that even a hint of her apostate status was too risky, but she still felt nearly naked without her magical protection. Sandal had worked a few runes into her fan so that it would work as a staff in a pinch, but it was hardly sufficient. Belatedly, she realized that she had not told Fenris to leave his sword at home, and hoped that he knew to not bring it. 

By three in the afternoon, the house was ablaze with lights and flowers, almost unrecognizable. Hawke hid in her room for most of it, listening to her mother’s animated voice give directions to a group of harried helpers. It was good to hear her so happy, true, but part of Hawke traitorously wished that the qunari would attack just to get her out of this. 

At six, she finally sighed and pulled a bath for herself, scrubbing until her skin tingled. Toweling herself off, she slipped into a shift, then a corset, lacing it up with the help of a mirror. She never wore a corset for her everyday adventures, and the feeling of it tightly supporting her bust was alien to her. Slipping into the gown and tightening the laces along the sides, she appraised herself.

Her shaved head, at least, was familiar, as was the apprehensive look on her face. The rest of her was decidedly...feminine. The gown itself was white satin, fitting low across her chest and tight to her waist, but champagne silk formed the sleeves and underskirt. At her request, the sleeves fit her tight to the elbow before flaring out, lined with white, but short enough that they would not impede her movements. 

Reaching over to the chair by her tub, Hawke picked up the girdle her mother had given her.  _ This was my mother’s,  _ she had said when she had found it, hidden in a back panel of a wardrobe.  _ You should wear it. _

The gilded links chimed against each other as she fastened it around her waist. Maker, but she almost had a figure in this dress. It was probably the corset’s fault. She made a half-hearted attempt with the kohl, smudging some along her lash line, but abandoned the lip color entirely. Stepping into her shoes, she attempted to pull them on, impeded by the corset. 

“Dammit,” Hawke muttered, trying to bend enough to hook her finger under the leather. A knock on the door surprised her and she nearly lost her balance.

“Hawke?” Her mother’s voice petered in through the wood. “Are you ready?”

“I - almost, hang on.” Hawke wrestled at the leather and successfully slipped one low heel on. 

The door opened and Leandra entered. At the sight of her daughter her face lit up, and Hawke felt her cheeks warm with embarrassment. 

“Oh, Lilith. You look lovely.”

Hawke squirmed in discomfort at the use of her birth name. “I can’t get the other shoe on,” she confessed, kicking it over to her mother.

“Ah, yes. The golden rule, shoe before corset.” Her mother grinned at her. “Would you like help?”

“Yes please,” Hawke sighed, sitting down on the chair with relief.

Her mother slipped the shoe on with easy hands and sat back on her heels, studying her daughter. “I am so proud of you,” she said after a moment.

“Thanks, mom,” Hawke said, smiling fondly down. “Do I look ready to be eaten alive by the rich and famous?”

“Now, they won’t eat you alive,” Leandra chided, but she smiled anyway. “I just wish you would grow your hair out. Then you’d look like a true lady.”

Hawke ran a hand over her stubble. “I like it short. Besides, you know I inherited Dad’s kinky hair, it’ll never style like yours does.”

“True. The curls that man had...” Leandra shook her head. 

Hawke rose and hugged her mother, swiftly and impulsively, breathing in her flowery scent. “Well, shall we go get ready for our guests?”

 

Fenris had picked up his clothes earlier that day, and now they were sitting, wrapped in muslin, on the end of the bed he never used. He had avoided looking at them so far, but as evening approached, that became increasingly harder to do. Eventually, he poured himself a glass of wine to steady himself and approached the bundle with the same trepidation he usually reserved for darkspawn. 

Firelight glistened on the silk doublet as he pulled it out, laying it on the bed. Then the shirt, crisp linen under his fingers, and the pants they had picked out. For a moment, he simply ran his fingers over the fabric, studying the careful craftsmanship. 

_ “Dress me.” The curt command was all Fenris needed, and he rose from where he knelt before his master and stepped over to the wardrobe _ .  _ Selecting each robe, he extended it to his master, replacing it at a brusque shake of the head until his master nodded with approval, and Fenris’ heart swelled with pride. Slipping it off the wooden beam that it hung from, he took the finely embroidered garment and slipped it over his master’s form, carefully, dutifully smoothing out the wrinkles. His master’s hand stopped his, and Fenris looked down obediently. _

_ “Good, little wolf.” Fenris kept his eyes trained firmly on the grey-black whiskers below the mouth, how they moved when his master spoke. When his master’s fingers found his jaw and turned his head, he moved obediently, conscious of his master’s gaze on him. A fingertip brushed the lyrium lines on his neck, sending a warning spark through his body. Fenris shivered despite himself, and the hand stiffened on his throat. _

_ “You will not let me down tonight,” the lips pronounced, and Fenris tried to nod around the hand that was cutting off his air, but it tightened instead - _

Fenris gasped and flinched away from the clothes, heart pounding. Dropping to the floor, he balled his hands into fists and pressed them to his temples, rocking back and forth. His breath came hard and fast. Such a strong flashback was rare now, but when they came, they consumed him, made him feel the same fear and shame that he had then. Pressing one hand to his lips, he tried to steady himself. 

Slowly, his room came back to him, the firelight from the hearth, the chairs, his sword, leaning by the door. Shaking, he dropped his hand to the amulet around his neck, the first gift Hawke had ever gotten him.  _ I take care of my friends.  _

Carefully, he unfolded himself and reached for the wine he had poured. Downing it in one reckless gulp, he slipped his usual tunic over his head and picked up the shirt. He rubbed the material between thumb and forefinger for a moment, then put it on. The garment fit perfectly, from the distorted reflection visible in his sword. He was sure that there was a mirror in the house somewhere, but it did not seem important. The pants next, lacing them up in the front, and then the doublet, fastened with heavy silver clasps. His usual belt at least would work, which allowed him to keep a dagger on him. That was acceptable for a noble party, he thought. If not, well, he would be a little indecorous before he would walk across Hightown unarmed. 

The shoes, though. Fenris made a face before slipping into them. They were soft leather, lined with wool, and not uncomfortable, but the feeling of pressure on his toes made him cringe. He much preferred his usual wraps. Briefly, he contemplated drinking another glass of wine to calm his nerves, then decided against it. He needed to remain sharp. 

One more thing. He picked up the small bundle, neatly wrapped in brown paper, that was sitting on his mantelpiece, and slipped it into his pocket. Only then did he slip out the door into the Hightown dusk, a dark shadow against the night.


	3. III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The night of the ball. Featuring so much pining.

As the guests trickled in, Hawke’s nervousness slipped away. This was what she did well, humorous quips and easy compliments. True, these strangers were elegant nobles, not Lowtown thugs. Nonetheless, with a serious reduction on the profanity and blasphemy, Hawke felt that she was managing acceptably. It helped that everyone seemed to know her mother.

Fenris had still not arrived when her mother announced that dancing would begin soon,  and Hawke began to worry. She would not put it past the irascible elf to simply not come, but she had hoped that he would. It would be easier to do this with a friend at her side - besides, a wicked part of her wanted to see how he reacted to her gown.

“Milady?” Hawke turned to see a skinny older gentleman, at least thirty but with a receding hairline that would put an older man to shame, bowing courteously to her. She curtseyed awkwardly in response.

“My name is Comte Durand,” the man said, and Hawke extended her hand automatically for a slightly cold and uncomfortable kiss. “May I have the honor of the first dance with your ladyship?”

“I - um, sure,” Hawke said, and immediately mentally kicked herself. “I mean, yes, Sirrah Durand, you may.”

“Thank you, milady,” he replied, releasing her hand. “How are you enjoying your party?”

“I’m having fun!” Hawke exclaimed cheerily, trying to give the answer the life it had possessed before the first twenty people had asked. “Thank you so much for coming.”

“I get the privilege of spending an evening with a beautiful woman,” he said with a smile. “It truly is my pleasure.”

 _Oh, Maker_. Hawke realized, belatedly, that he was hitting on her, and wished desperately for Fenris to arrive. This man had to be ten years her senior. Concealing her face behind her fan and forcing a flustered giggle, she flicked her eyes again to the door.

And there he was, white hair standing out amongst the throngs. He was scanning the crowd, and their eyes met through the throng. Relief swept through her like a wave, and she dropped her fan to give the comte a genuine apologetic smile.

“Excuse me, but I must go greet a new guest,” she said, politely, dipping a curtsey. “I will find you when the dancing starts.” And with that she was gone in a swirl of skirts, her heart nearly choking her. She didn’t know why she pretended, still, that she did not like Fenris, did not want him. It was easy, when he was not present to come up with all the reasons why they could never work, and then he appeared through the doors of the Hanged Man or positioned himself off her left hip in a battle, and she was smitten all over again. She could not imagine ever wanting one of the men here as long as he was in her life.

Then she was by his side, and Fenris looked at her, his mouth opening slightly. Hawke gazed at him, equally in awe. The silk framed his strong shoulders and left his throat open, revealing the delicate tracery of lyrium above his shirt. He had even put on the slippers.

“Hawke.” Fenris spoke first, and she forced herself to blink, conscious that she was staring. “You look... beautiful.”

“So do you,” she grinned, raising her eyes to his face at last. “It seems that you can clean up after all.”

He gave the half-grin that she had come to adore and looked around. “Your mother has outdone herself.”

“You should tell her that, she’ll love to hear it.” Hawke extended her arm to Fenris, recklessly. “Shall I show you where the refreshments are?”

 

This was far too much.

For starters, there were so many people. The thrum of conversation filled his ears and overwhelmed him. Lamps, lit in front of mirrors, reflected light throughout the room, bouncing off of glasses and jewels and pearly teeth, showing as people, all around him, talked and laughed indistinguishably.

And Hawke was asking him to take her arm.

She was the most radiant thing of all, brilliant in a silky gown that cascaded over her form, tight and structured through the waist and loose and flowing below. Her sleeves were a finer silk, almost transparent, and he could see her muscles silhouetted against the fabric. The neckline was cut low enough that he could see the beginning swell of her breasts, and he looked away guiltily before she could catch him staring. He was used to her covered in blood and sweat, overflowing with life, energy and magic exploding out of her. Somehow, she had contained all that life into herself, and he thought she would burn him if he touched her.

But she was holding her arm out to him, expectantly. Awkwardly, he slipped his arm through hers, and she rested one palm on the back of his hand. His lyrium was on fire at her touch, but somehow it did not hurt. If anything...

Fenris became conscious of his own arousal and felt his ears flush with embarrassment. He was a free man, he could pursue any person he wished, but he could not bring himself to even imagine pursuing Hawke in that way. She was blinding on his right, something fierce and wild and unable to be contained. If he could even be trusted to love her as she deserved.

Thankfully, she was leading him to the other room, where long tables brimming with food had been set up. “Now, I suppose you’ve never had most of this, and to be honest, I haven’t either, so I was thinking we could start at one end and work our way down?”

Somehow, her smile eased the conflict within him, and he returned it. Hawke led him to one end and let go of his arm to skewer a grape on a small piece of wood, carefully twisted to look like a sword. She held it out to him.

Obediently, he took it and bit down, and the sweet juice exploded through his mouth. Chewing, he smiled, and Hawke grinned back at him.

“Got it, grapes are a yes. Makes sense, given your fondness for wine. And there’s a bar too, by the way, over there -”

From the main room came a sudden chord and the rapid dying away of conversation, and Hawke let out a muttered expletive that sounded a lot more like his bloodstained Hawke than the elegant creature he saw before him.

“I promised this dance to some comte. I’ll be back, okay? Feel free to eat anything, make small talk, oh, I don’t know -” and then she was gone in a swirl of silks, leaving Fenris behind. Dropping the skewer into a wastebasket, he moved awkwardly towards the bar.

“Master Fenris!” Came a familiar voice, and Bodahn straightened to greet him. “Very good to see you, ser, very good indeed.”

“Bodahn,” Fenris said dryly. “I did not know you were a bartender.”

“Well, off and on, ser, off and on. What can I get for you?”

“Wine,” Fenris said shortly as he heard the strings ring out again. “Red wine.”

“Certainly, ser.” Bohdan turned and retrieved a bottle with a cloth wrapped around it. He poured deftly and handed the delicate glass to Fenris. “Enjoy.”

Fenris nodded and took the glass, trying to work out what had caused the knot in his stomach. He disliked crowds, of course, but he was acclimatizing to this one acceptably. Even the lights, once so overwhelming, had calmed down to an irritating itch in the back of his mind. He had visited parties at Danarius’ side, but here he was free to speak to whomever he chose. Scanning the crowd, he saw Leandra, but she was engrossed in a conversation with a short, immensely fat man. Better not to disturb.

The string quartet finished tuning and picked up a familiar dance melody. Fenris wandered towards the main hall, absent curiosity driving his steps.

What he saw stopped him in the doorway, wine glass halfway to his lips. Hawke was dancing, her skirts flying around her ankles as she spun past an older man in a sharp maroon doublet. He caught her mid-spin and dipped her, then straightened, wrapping an arm around her waist and moving her across the floor skillfully. Perhaps most upsettingly, Hawke was laughing gleefully, one hand on his shoulder.

At long last, Fenris determined the origin of the feeling in his stomach. Jealousy. Over Hawke, whom he could not have even if he courted her. Raising the wine glass leadenly to his lips, he took a drink, trying to keep his face calm.

The wine steadied him a little. Dimly, he remembered her comment when she had invited him - that at an event like this, the suitor was supposed to make the first move. Did that mean she wanted him to court her? Did she expect him to ask her for a dance, as this lord clearly had? His comfort faded - he felt suddenly out of place, the ex-slave that did not know how to pursue a woman.

The song ended, and as he wrestled with himself, another man, this one dressed in dark blue with gold embellishments, approached Hawke. She nodded, and the strings picked up another tune as he swung her onto the dance floor. Fenris remained, drinking his wine bitterly and watching her movements, her smile, her almost predatory energy. With each step she took he felt himself falling harder and harder for her, but each time the song ended, he could not seem to move to her side and ask her to dance with him instead.


	4. IV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What will a jealous Fenris do?

Eventually, the night started to draw to a close. Hawke had enjoyed the first few dances, more than she cared to admit, but even her fighting stamina had been tested, and her patience more so. When the strings began to play a slow song, she carefully dodged Comte Durand and went looking for Fenris. She found him almost immediately, just off the dance floor and holding a glass of wine like it was a survival tool. He looked cross, but that was something she had learned long ago not to fear.

“Hello,” she said merrily, sliding next to him. “How are you?”

He did not look at her. “I am well.” The tips of his ears were flushed, she realized. He had been drinking for some time. 

“Can I ask for a birthday dance?” She asked teasingly, fully expecting him to say no. 

Fenris blinked into his wine for a moment, then looked up at her. “I would like that,” he said softly, and Hawke felt her heart stop for a moment, then pick up again at twice its normal pace.

“Really?” She started, but he had set his glass down on the table next to him and taken her arm, pulling her onto the floor. In his finery, she had forgotten how strong he truly was until he placed one hand on her hip and drew her close to him. 

Fenris was a surprisingly competent dancer, she thought dizzily as the room spun around them. There was no artistry to his movements any more than there was when he fought, but she felt the same power in him now that she felt each time he swung his massive, two-handed sword over his head to fell an enemy. He was steering her around the floor with reckless abandon, no doubt fueled by the wine she could still smell on him, and she realized suddenly that she wanted to kiss him. 

The tune ended and he released her, his green eyes burning into hers for a long second before he turned and stepped off the floor, seemingly intent on disappearing into the crowd. Hawke raced after him, her heart in her throat.

“Fenris?” She called, and he turned and looked back at her, something naked in his eyes that she could not quite put into words. She started towards him, but was stopped by a hand on her wrist.

“Excuse me, milady, is he bothering you?” It was one of the men she had danced with - although she was cursedly blanking on his name, the skinny mustache he sported was completely unforgettable. 

“What?” Hawke blinked up at him in confusion. “No, why would he be?”

“It’s alright.” The man’s voice oozed charm. “I know a lady such as yourself would not want to dance with an elf. Simply say the word and I can have him removed for the presumption.”

Hawke’s vision went white around the sides. How  _ dare _ he. A quick glance at Fenris revealed that he had heard. For a moment she expected him to glow, to lose his temper on the unfortunate nobleman, but then his face went suddenly blank and he turned and walked out of the room, disappearing behind a gaggle of older women. 

Hawke turned back to the man, who was smirking obliviously. “You - “ she could barely get the words out through her rage, but a small voice in her head was reminding her that she could not afford to make a scene either. “You are the one who is being presumptuous, ser,” she said, as icily as possible. “In future, please trust that I am fully intelligent enough to pick my own dance partners.” 

“What was the knife-ears even doing here?” Another man strolled up, seemingly unaware of the tension now crackling between them. Hawke leveled her gaze on the newcomer and he paled visibly.

“He is here as my personal guest and loyal friend,” she said in a clipped tone, watching both men’s faces fall slightly. “Now, if you will excuse me.” She turned, then had another thought and pivoted back. “For the sake of our continued friendship, I will endeavor to forget this exchange happened.” 

Well, that was as close as she could politely get to telling them to stick their opinion back up the ass they shat it out of. Hawke smoothed down her dress, but Fenris had vanished entirely. Guilt rose up in her - she had not anticipated such a disgusting reaction, and she wanted the anniversary of his escape to be fun, not stressful. He had enough to deal with. 

Damn that elf, where was he? Hawke scanned the room, thankfully emptying of people, but his slender form was nowhere to be seen. Perhaps the courtyard.

The cool air brushed her chest as she slipped through the door, and she hiked her dress up with a curse. Why did this gown have to be so low-cut? Lifting her eyes, she saw a shadow move, and there he was. 

“Fenris - Maker, I’m so sorry, that absolute prick had no right to say that.” She hurried over to him, heels clacking on the cobbles. 

“You worry too much, Hawke,” he said idly, stepping into the moonlight and gazing off over the roofs of Kirkwall. The glow reflected off his tattoos, making him seem almost as if he was in between worlds, half in and half out of the Fade. “I can take care of myself.”

“I know you can, silly,” she teased to hide her concern. “I still gave him a piece of my mind, though.”

“You... did?” Fenris’ ears flicked back towards her, but he did not turn to face her. 

“Of course.” Hawke looked around and spotted a bench near him. “Come over here, I have got to get these shoes off.”

He did not move as she sat heavily and wrestled with one heel, the corset still impeding her motions. Nonetheless, when she swore and threw one heel to the ground, she saw him smile lightly. 

“All my life I’ve been condemned for being a slave. To be condemned for being an elf was most novel.” His voice was measured, but it still made Hawke jump, coming from the silence. 

“Those dipshits probably couldn’t feed themselves without their elven cooks, let alone clean their fancy-ass houses.” Hawke finally freed herself from the other shoe and spread her toes on the cool cobblestones. “Maker, but that feels good.”

Fenris nodded, still looking away from her. It was moments like this when she realized just how distant he still truly was from her, not just across the courtyard but emotionally as well. She leaned back and sighed, inhaling the cool night air. A swell of laughter came from inside, but the sounds were slowly dying away. 

“Hawke, I... think you should know.” Fenris spoke again, choosing each word deliberately. “I have little experience with namedays and gifts, but -” he turned, and she saw the effort it took to look her in the eyes. “I think that dancing with you was the best nameday present I could have asked for.”

Hawke felt her face grow hot even as she smiled despite herself. “Oh.”

“Next time, we shall have to find a more private place to dance, though. These nobles behave like spoiled sheep.” There was the disdain she was used to, and it made her laugh.

Hawke stood, barefoot in her silks, and extended a hand to him. “There’s always out here.”

“Your mother will be displeased.”

“My mother probably already is, since I didn’t say goodbye to any of the guests. If we go back in through the kitchens we can avoid her.” Hawke did not move her hand, even though it was shaking with nervousness.

“There is no music,” Fenris pointed out.

“Hum something.” When he still did not move, Hawke gave an exasperated sigh. “If you don’t want to dance, that’s fine, but you can just say so.” 

 

Fenris had thought much about how this night would go, but dancing with Hawke was not something he had dared to consider. The memory of her touch, so unfamiliar and yet so pleasant especially without his armor between them, was still overwhelming, invading his senses. And here she was asking him to dance again, but giving him full freedom to refuse at the same time. It was very confusing. 

When he nodded and took her hand, he knew he had drunk too much wine, but her face lit up immediately. “I don’t know any songs,” he told her warningly.

“Alright, but I’ll warn you, I have a terrible voice,” she grinned as he slipped his other hand around her waist and pulled her to him. The silk of her dress on his fingertips was the softest thing he had ever felt. Definitely softer than her hands, which were hard and calloused from her staff. He decided that he still liked her hands better. And she was warm, pressed against him. 

She was humming something, hardly qualifying as a tune, but he remembered the steps from brief lessons in Tevinter, a trick Danarius had taught him to impress guests.  _ Look at the slave, he’s so cultured, would you believe it. Here, have him rip out this poor thing’s heart, she stepped out of line and I want to see what he can do.  _

He must have stiffened, because Hawke stopped and leaned back to look at his face. “What is it?”

“Nothing,” he muttered, but his discomfort must have been plain because she did not start humming again.

“Bad memory?” She asked, after a moment. He looked down, away from her searching eyes, and nodded. “Do you want to keep dancing?” 

Fenris looked at her hand, fingers entwined with his own, and searched for the words to describe his feelings. He could not think of a respectful way to say that holding her hand was good enough for him, so instead he disentangled himself. “I think I have danced enough for this evening.” Yes, that would do.

Hawke nodded, smiling at him, and his heart warmed despite the lingering memory. “Do you want to stay out here or do you want to go raid the buffet leftovers?”

That made him smile, despite himself. It was such a Hawke question. “Is your mother safely away?”

Hawke tiptoed to the window and peeked in. “I think so. Come on!”

“Hawke, your shoes.” 

“Oh, shit, right.” She trotted over to where she had left them and scooped them up. “Shall we?”


	5. V.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oh god, the fluff.

The kitchen was softly lit with lamplight, and the tables had been carried in whole, apparently to be put away for storage in the morning. A quick peek in the ice chest revealed the few truly perishable items, and Hawke nearly fell in trying to get them out, impeded by her corset and more skirts than she had ever desired. Only Fenris’ hand on her wrist saved her from ignominious defeat. 

Spreading out a tablecloth on the floor, she loaded a plate with a variety of delicacies and beckoned Fenris to sit by her. “Now, we’ve tried grapes.”

“And fish is terrible.” He made a face at the smoked salmon she had grabbed. 

“Not all fish! This is pretty good.” She took a crust of bread and laid a sliver of salmon on it. “Give it a try. If you hate it, it’s alright.”

Obediently, he accepted the offering and took a bite, chewing for a bit before closing his eyes in disgust and swallowing roughly. “It is less terrible, but still not good.”

“Got it, fish is a universal no.” Hawke perused the plate, eating a slice herself. “How about cheese?”

“I like cheese,” he said, raising an eyebrow at her. “That is not so hard to find.”

“True, but goat cheese is. Try it.”

“I will, but then I get to pick something for you to try.” There was the half-smile again, and Hawke was not going to refuse a face like that. 

The evening deepened in this manner, trading bites of strange delicacies. Hawke fed Fenris a pickle without warning and laughed hysterically when he took a massive bite and his ears immediately flattened to the side of his head in shock. “Sour,” he gasped out, and she almost fell over from laughing so hard. He retaliated almost immediately, though, by feeding her some kind of Antivan dish, a raw quail egg and vinegar liquid, served with green onions in small ceramic cups. When she looked down at the small yellow yolk swimming in fluid and up at him accusingly, he simply pointed to his half-eaten pickle, and she knew she was doomed.

There were sweets, too, the lemon cakes that she had promised (officially tasty) and light, airy meringues (not tasty). The first time Fenris tasted cocoa, his eyes closed and his ears rose slightly in delight, and Hawke decided to get him chocolates soon. Sometimes, she had to admit, it was good to be rich. 

Eventually, they were both full, and Hawke had the idea to sneak into the main room and get a bottle of wine that Bohdan had not poured. Glasses were too much work, so they passed the bottle back and forth between them, talking and laughing in low voices and occasionally shushing the other when they spoke too loudly. 

“Where did you learn to dance?” Hawke asked after a few minutes stretching herself out on the floor and loosening the laces of her gown. Fenris was still sitting up, back against the cabinets, the bottle of wine held loosely in his hands. The slippers had long since been discarded.

“Tevinter. Danarius taught me, so that he could send me to dance with magisters he needed to show he had control over.” Fenris’ voice was fiercely bitter. 

“So that’s why you dance so aggressively.” Hawke gave him a sleepy grin. 

Fenris looked down at her. “Would you prefer that I did not?”  
“Hardly,” Hawke said, rolling onto her stomach and grabbing another candy. “It was quite exhilarating.”

“I see.” He straightened, then felt inside his doublet. “I... this is for you.”

Hawke straightened, chewing, and took the small parcel from his outstretched hand. “Is there an occasion?”

“Do you ever have an occasion for your gifts?” She looked up at him, about to object, then saw the teasing glint in his eyes.

“Okay, fair enough.” Carefully, she pulled on the thread and unwrapped the small package. Light glinted off a heavy pewter pin, shaped like a hawk with outstretched wings. Hawke ran a finger wonderingly over it, then met his gaze again. He looked almost nervous.

“Fenris, this is beautiful,” she said softly, and his body seemed to relax in relief. “Thank you.”

“It is my pleasure,” he told her stiffly, but she could tell that he was pleased by her praise. Deftly, she fastened it to her gown, on the seam of the bodice that was strong enough to hold its weight. She could feel its presence on her chest, a reminder.

 

Fenris was not sure when exactly Hawke fell asleep, but eventually her breathing deepened into sonorous snoring. Gently, he slipped an arm under her legs and lifted her, stepping lightly over the remains of their picnic. He would tidy that before he left - if slavery had taught him anything worthwhile, it was how to be fastidious so others would not suffer for his actions. But first, Hawke. 

Thankfully, she did not wake as he carried her up the stairs. Her mabari was in her room, though, and before he could even think of how to quiet the beast she looked up, gave a quiet woof, and curled back up again. Fenris supposed that was as close to a blessing as he was likely to get from the dog. 

“Both Tevinter runaways, are we not,” he told her, and she opened her eyes and gave him an altogether too intelligent look before sniffing and burying her nose under her tail. In his arms, Hawke squirmed slightly, and he quickly laid her on the bed before he could disturb her further. 

She never looked this peaceful awake, he thought. Her long eyelashes brushed her skin, and the firelight gave her brown skin an amber glow, accentuating the tip of her nose, the curve of her lips. Her silk gown was fiercely wrinkled by now, but she still looked more lovely than anything he had ever seen. Fenris had never been free to want, but he was now, and he wanted Hawke, almost as much as he craved revenge. This was a different feeling, though, light and hot and overwhelming, not the cold, calculated precision of his hate. 

The mabari woofed again, quietly, from behind him, and he took the hint. He was glad, after all, that Hawke had such a loyal chaperone. Quiet as a ghost, he slipped to the door and closed it gently, but he could not bring himself to leave just yet. Finally, as a compromise, he placed his hand on the door. “Goodnight, Hawke,” he said, voice low and quiet, and slipped down the stairs as silently as he had come, not hearing the creak of bedframe as Hawke rolled over, entirely awake, and buried her face in the pillow to hide a grin that she thought would split her open. All Fenris heard was the ambient sound of a quiet, empty house, and he thought in that moment that this must be what safety sounded like.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so sorry about the delay; I wrote a massive quantity of fanfic while I was on break from school and we hadn't inaugurated the Annoying Orange yet, and then all my responsibilities nailed me at once. I miss writing though! A few more drabbles may appear soon.


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